


with great power

by novelized



Category: Glee
Genre: Blam, M/M, Sam Being A Dude-Bro, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 14:32:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novelized/pseuds/novelized
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing about receiving mysterious superpowers is that Sam’s pretty sure you’re not supposed to question where they came from. And one morning Sam wakes up with the ability to read minds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with great power

The thing about receiving mysterious superpowers is that Sam’s pretty sure you’re not supposed to question where they came from. That was rule number one. There was another saying about it, something like sticking a gift into a horse’s mouth, but that one makes less sense and, besides, it doesn’t at all explain why Sam wakes up one morning and can suddenly hear everyone else’s thoughts.

He doesn’t even _realize_ it at first. The morning starts off totally normal; he gets up, sniff-tests his boxers until he finds a clean pair, brushes his teeth in Kurt’s old bathroom, and then goes downstairs for a quick breakfast before school. He and the Hummels don’t usually cross paths in the morning, so he’s surprised when he hears footsteps thudding down the stairs and then the kitchen door swinging open. There’s an overloaded spoon hanging out of his mouth, and he’s concentrating hard on reading the back of the cereal box, so he’s not really paying attention when all of a sudden Burt says, “Lord have mercy, my wife is such a fox.”

The spoon clatters back to the bowl. Sam can appreciate the honesty -- his parents are still crazy about each other, after all, he’s had to put up with them kissing in the foyer all his life -- but he’s _never_ heard Burt say something like that, least of all to him. And he doesn’t have any idea how to respond, so he just coughs up a frosted flake and tries to sound agreeable without being overly agreeable, which is a fine line to tread.

“Morning, Sam,” Burt says next, clapping him on the back. “Sleep good?”

“Not as good as you, apparently,” Sam tries to joke back, but Burt just gives him an odd look and reaches for the milk carton.

Sam returns to his cereal, and then the door swings open again and Carole enters the kitchen in a robe. Sam quickly diverts his eyes, because sure, she’s foxy for an older lady, but that’s Finn’s _mom_ and he totally doesn’t want to have those sorts of thoughts, especially not at 7 o’clock in the morning. “Morning, boys,” Carole says cheerfully, and Sam dribbles a little milk down his chin when he goes to return the greeting. She pours herself a cup of coffee, pecks Burt on the cheek, and then disappears right back through the door. Sam thinks that should be it, and he’s about to clear his mess away when:

“I wonder if I have enough time to sneak upstairs for a round two.”

This time, Sam nearly knocks his bowl over, head whipping around in alarm. He’s hoping to God he just misunderstood, that he didn’t just hear what he _thinks_ he heard, but Burt’s eyes are fixed on the ceiling like he can see Carole right through it, and there’s a tiny little smile tugging at his lips that Sam never would’ve noticed any other time, and he’s either drunk or stoned or -- or too comfortable around Sam now, or something. He thinks about texting Kurt: _did your dad ever talk about banging your stepmom in front of you?_ but that seems inappropriate and morning-ruining and maybe even permanently-scarring, so he decides against it. Instead he carries his dishes to the sink as fast as he can, hoists his backpack off the ground, and says, “Don’t wanna be late, later, Mr. Hummel,” before bolting out the door, grimacing hard the entire way.

*

The morning just gets weirder from there. Sam’s at his locker, trying to work his combination, when a cheerleader walks by him and says, “Jesus, I’m so constipated I could die.”

He has literally never heard a girl say the word _constipated_ before, and he turns around to see who she’s talking to, but there’s no one else in the hallway at all and she’s not even sort of looking at him. He swivels his head this way and that, to make sure he’s not missing something, but he’s not and the Cheerio’s face is impassively blank, smoothing out her high ponytail like she hadn’t said a word.

Sam shakes his head, confused, and then decides he was probably making it up. Sometimes he likes to narrate his life in his head -- not in a crazy way, just for fun, and that must’ve been one of those moments where he wished someone would say something way better than what they’d ever really say. Except just then one of his teammates walks past, a defensive lineman who weighs probably five times what Sam does and spends his free time shoving smaller kids into trashcans, and he highfives Sam with enough force for it to hurt. That part’s normal, but then Sam turns back to his locker, and the dude _breaks into song._ Not just any song, either, it’s from The Little Mermaid soundtrack, and his voice is steady and clear and proud. This from a guy who’d said glee club was the second gayest thing in the world, just after gay porn.

He wonders if maybe he’s dreaming, so he pinches himself in the arm hard enough to bruise, but that does nothing but make his eyes water so he stops pinching himself and goes to first period instead.

*

In first period the guy sitting directly behind Sam keeps talking about their teacher’s ass, in a lazy, drawling sort of way, and it’s a little unsettling. But every time he looks over his shoulder the guy’s zoned out, mouth closed and his eyes heavy-lidded, and Sam can’t figure out how he’s doing it, and he gets a crick in his neck from looking back way too many times.

*

By lunchtime his head is spinning. People are being strangely _open_ today, except no one’s calling them on it, no one’s giving them odd looks, no one even bats a freaking eye when a girl in his English class announces that her tampon was uncomfortable, and that she wishes she’d skipped on the thong. Sam walks around in a slight daze all morning, recalculating everything he thought he knew about people, when Blaine joins him in front of the corkboard in the hallway, their usual meeting spot. “Hey, Sam,” Blaine says, tugging a papersack lunch out of his manpurse ( _briefcase,_ whatever).

He’s a little too relieved to see a familiar face, especially one that he knows he can trust. Blaine would never talk about his nutsack itching, or his intestinal issues, and Sam’s just glad for a little normalcy being returned to the world. “S’up?” he returns, taking the bag from Blaine without asking and peeking inside to see if he’s got anything good.

Blaine steals the lunch back but hands over his orange. He is the best bro ever. “Kurt and Rachel officially have an apartment. I just got a picture.”

“Cool,” Sam says, tearing into the orange with his fingernails. Blaine keeps one of those As Seen On Tv orange peelers in his locker at all times, but Sam prefers the old school method. It makes him feel like a man. “Does Kurt love New York?”

They start together towards the cafeteria. Blaine’s going through his phone absentmindedly. “Yeah, he does,” he says, and then, “I miss him so much.”

He’s only been gone for, like, a day, but Sam’s not going to hold that against him. He figures they were probably hitting it on the regular all summer. He’d miss that a lot too. “That’s why they invented Facetime,” he says, trying to be helpful.

Blaine looks up from his phone and gives Sam a puzzled look. “What is?”

“You know. When you’re missing Kurt. The quality isn’t awesome, but at least you can sneak into the bathroom with your phone and no one thinks you’re blogging about your poop.” He stuffs an orange slice into his mouth, and then offers one to Blaine.

“How did you --?” Blaine still has a weird look on his face, and seriously, Sam wishes people would stop looking at him like that, but before he can finish his sentence Blaine just shakes his head and takes the orange. “Nevermind. Thanks.”

“So what are you doing after school?”

“Being miserable and alone,” Blaine says, and Sam scoffs because that’s overdramatic even for him, but then he says, “You can’t be miserable all the time,” just as Blaine says, “Probably just going home and doing homework,” and then they stare at each other for a long moment, and why would Blaine answer twice? Sam’s still searching Blaine’s face for some sort of answer when Blaine says, “How is he doing that?” except this is the weirdest part of all, _because his mouth isn’t moving._

“Oh my god,” Sam says.

A lightswitch has just turned on. He’s read enough comic books to know what’s happening to him, and he’s more delighted than freaked out, but still he -- he needs to be sure. “Sorry,” Sam says suddenly, and he stuffs what’s left of the orange, peel and all, into Blaine’s hands, and then backpedals down the hallway. “I just remembered I left something in the library.”

“Since when does Sam go to the library?” Blaine says. No. Thinks.

“I mean the -- auditorium, or -- look, dude, I just gotta go, I’ll see you in glee club,” he calls, and then bursts into a janitor’s closet, flattens his back against the wall, and gives himself time to think.

*

Artie’s just leisurely rolling down the hallway when Sam commandeers his wheelchair, pushing him into the nearest empty classroom and shutting the door behind them. Artie looks alarmed, which is fair, because Sam had probably breathed in a lot of cleaning supplies and day-old trash while he’d gone over the morning’s events, but he needs someone to test his theory on, and he and Artie are friends. “Okay,” Sam says, “do me a favor, don’t ask questions, just think of a color.”

That doesn’t seem to relax him any. “Um, what?”

“A color,” Sam repeats. “Just think of a color.”

“Are you having trouble in art class again?” Artie asks, looking more sympathetic than frightened now, which he guesses is an improvement. “Because the names of the colors are written on the wall --”

“No! I know my colors, dude. I’ll explain in a minute. Just. Think of one.”

It takes a minute, but Sam is staring determinedly at Artie’s face, and there’s a long stretch of nothing -- Sam’s about to give up -- when Artie thinks, _Green._

“Green,” Sam says giddily. His lips hadn’t moved. He’d heard it clear as day.

Artie’s eyebrows lift. “Is this one of those brain tests? 98% of people say green carrots, or whatever --”

“No. Think of a number.”

“Sam --”

“Any number!”

_52._

“52!” Sam says, and he actually lets out a whoop and smacks Artie in the back. “This is the best thing ever!”

“I’m really happy for you, Sam,” Artie says. “Now can you tell me what’s going on?”

Sam puffs out his chest importantly. “I,” he announces, “have magical powers.”

There’s another long silence between them. Artie’s searching his face concernedly. He doesn’t seem super pumped for him, which is weird, because if the roles were reversed, Sam would totally offer to be his sidekick. He doesn’t even congratulate Sam, though. He just scrunches his forehead and says, “Actually, Sam, maybe you _should_ stay out of the arm room. I think the paint fumes are going to your head.” He turns himself around and wheels out the door. Before he’s gone, though, he thinks, _That boy is crazy with a capital C._

“I’m not crazy,” Sam yells at his back, and Artie pauses for a second, shakes his head, and keeps going.

He’s not crazy. He can just hear what other people are thinking. There’s a difference.

*

Sam knows that this could go one of two ways: he could use his new power for evil, or he could use it for good. Being evil takes a lot of energy. Puck had given him tips and pointers, back in the day, but it all seemed like so much _work_. Besides, girls seem to like it when he says nice things, and their eyelashes go all fluttery, and sometimes they’ll make out with him, so if he can use that for even _more_ makeouts, and help people along the way, then he’s pretty much set for life.

Before today he would’ve chosen invisibility as his superpower. He’d been so naive.

*

It’s easy to tune out during glee club. They spend more time talking about singing than actually singing, and Mr. Schuester was starting to sound like Charlie Brown’s teacher, even before he could read minds. Now, though, it’s a lot more fun to sit and listen to what people _think_ , except when they’re all thinking rapidly at the same time, and everything gets mixed up and jumbled together. He goes from listening to Unique think about her bra to Tina thinking about Mike -- things that he _never wanted to know about Mike_ , and it takes awhile for him to really hone his new power.

Eventually, though, he figures it out, how to channel it so he’s only picking out one thought at a time, one person at a time. He was totally made to be a superhero. He’s got this in the bag.

*

What he didn’t realize, before he could see inside everyone’s messed up heads, was how many problems they all had. All of them. And they’re keeping them all bottled up inside which is sad, because if they’d just _talk_ to someone, he’s pretty sure they’d feel a lot better. Now, though, it’s like it’s destined to be his job. Take Marley. Marley spends a lot of time thinking about her mom, which is both weird and boring until he figures out who her mom is.

She’s also constantly critiquing her own clothes, which is even more boring than thinking about her mom, until he realizes it’s because she’s poor and they’re all handmade. He had once sat and watched his dad stitch a hole in one of Sam’s old shirts just so his little brother had something clean to wear the next day. He can totally relate. So he decides to talk to Marley, and it goes super well, and he’s feeling really good about himself.

After that, he’s the first one to figure out what’s going on with Brittany. She’s having this crazy breakdown, and no one’s getting through to her. Sometimes it’s scary listening to her thoughts, because there’s a lot going on up there, but he sits patiently through twenty-five minutes of her thinking about Barbie dolls scissoring and then, while Mr. Schue is speaking, a story about a glee club in the North Pole full of elves who attack and kill their leader, before he gets to the good stuff.

It’s almost so simple that he can’t believe no one else has seen it. He knows what Brittany needs. He knows how to give it to her.

He draws a map and leaves it for her to find. He’s a total genius.

Then there’s Blaine. He and Blaine hadn’t started off on the best foot last year -- he remembers their almost-fight in the choir room with a sort of nostalgia, because it’s just plain funny now -- but in the past few weeks they’ve gotten, like, super tight. The election cements it, and the only reason he’d started stripping at the debate was because six girls and one dude in the audience were thinking, _This would be better if he were naked_ , and Sam is nothing if not a people-pleaser. He knows they’re going to win before they do because he listens to everyone’s thoughts before they enter the polling booth, and it goes a lot like this: _Blaine. Blaine. Blaine. Brittany. The short gay dude. Blaine._ There’s also an abundance of _the hot one_ , but he tosses those out because he figures they could go any which way.

Blaine thinks about Kurt a lot, but they’re interesting thoughts because most of them are kind of sad. He figures out that Kurt hasn’t been answering his phone. Hasn’t been calling him back. Hasn’t even asked about the outcome of the election, which is weird, because Blaine had told Sam that he’d sent a bubbly-cider-and-cheese gift basket, although when Sam had asked him for some cheese, his face had gone a little panicky and he said he’d already eaten it all. Blaine does not look like a guy that could eat a basket of cheese on his own.

Then Blaine goes to New York, and Sam knows what he did. He knows, and it sucks, and he thinks that maybe if he’d been around before -- if maybe they’d been hanging out when Blaine got that Facebook message -- if maybe for two seconds he’d thought before going over there and Sam had heard it -- but it doesn’t work that way, and he pretends he doesn’t already know when Blaine tells him what happened, because that’s what friends do.

Friends also bring their friends up when they’re feeling down. Blaine’s thinking about what a crappy person he is, fine. Sam just has to show him that he’s not.

When they’re collecting cans, there’s this moment where Sam hands Blaine some cream of corn, and Blaine looks at him, and Sam experiences something new: the thoughts he’d heard before had always been clear, concise. They’re usually full sentences or at least real _words_. This one, however, is just a feeling. Sam’s hit by a feeling, so easy and sure that it’s kind of surprising.

Blaine is happy. Happiness is literally radiating off of him in waves.

So that’s an improvement.

*

Happiness isn’t permanent, though. At least, not in Sam’s life. A good feeling can only last so long. The downside of having magical superpowers, what they don’t tell you in the comic books, and not even in the shitty movie adaptations, is that it’s actually really draining. Having to listen to the unhappy thoughts of strangers all day. He stands in line at the supermarket and the cashier’s thinking about her crumbling marriage. He washes his hands in a public bathroom and the janitor comes in, wondering if he’ll have enough money to get his kid a birthday present. Sam can only do so much.

Even Blaine is still going through bouts of sadness from time to time, and Sam wishes he could just say something, anything, to make it better. But after the experience with Artie he’s pretty sure no one would even believe him, and he doesn’t want Blaine to think he’s crazy, not after everything that’s happened. He just focuses on using his powers to help him become a better friend. He can’t save the world -- he’s not Batman, he doesn’t even have a cape -- but he can start small. He can do that.

On a Friday Sam and Blaine meet at their usual spot, and Blaine smiles at him but the smile is thin and wavery, and Sam immediately knows something is wrong. “Everything cool?” he asks, helping himself to Blaine’s fruit cup.

“Yeah, of course,” Blaine says. But he’s thinking: _What’s the point?_

Sam fights hard not to wince. Blaine doesn’t like putting himself out there sometimes, like he’s taxing other people, but Sam thinks it’d take a load off his shoulders and, besides, he’s pretty sure he’s heard worse. “You sure?” he asks. Giving him a second chance.

“Positive.” _No._

“In that case,” Sam says, “want to blow off lunch and prank call people pretending to be the president?”

“Maybe some other time.”

That’s how Sam knows Blaine’s really feeling down. He begrudgingly loves his Obama impression, even if he won’t admit it out loud.

“Here,” Blaine says, and hands Sam his entire lunchbag. “I’m not very hungry. I’ll see you after school.”

Sam probably shouldn’t take it, but Mrs. Anderson makes really good chicken salad sandwiches. And he’s weak. Besides, he thinks, Blaine will shake out of it soon enough.

After school, though, they just bump fists before parting ways. Sam makes an executive decision. He goes to the nearest store -- and avoids the heartbroken cashier, he can’t handle that much sadness at once -- and picks up a pint of double chocolate ice cream that a year ago he would’ve cringed at, then makes one final trip to the comic store that’s sort of doubled as his second home, if homes had no furniture and men who hadn’t seen the sun in days were always loitering around.

He can tell, judging by the look on Blaine’s face, not even having to eavesdrop into his thoughts, that Blaine is not expecting Sam to be standing on his doorstep, arms laden with goodies, when he opens his front door. But he is. And Blaine’s a little speechless when he lets him in, and Sam shoves the comics at him -- “I haven’t even read this one yet, that’s how good of a bro I am,” he says proudly -- and pops the lid off the ice cream container, and when Blaine asks him why he’s doing this, what’s the special occasion, he just shakes his head.

“We’re friends, dude,” Sam says. “Isn’t that enough?”

He cheats a little, right before he leaves. He needs some sort of confirmation, so he listens to Blaine’s thoughts. _Sam is such a good guy_ , Blaine is thinking, and he gives him a half-sided hug before opening the door for him.

“Later,” Sam says.

Blaine hadn’t seemed sad once.

*

This is how it goes: Sam shows up at Blaine’s house, sometime between football practice and dinner, and they play Halo or do homework or watch movies until Blaine’s parents not-so-subtly insinuate that it’s time for him to go home. They seem to like Sam enough -- “better than any of my other friends, anyway,” Blaine says flatly, “but that’s probably just because you play football and you’re straight” -- but they’re weird about having company over, and the last thing Sam wants to do is piss them off.

They don’t ever go to Sam’s, because Sam’s is actually Kurt’s, and he’s pretty sure Blaine doesn’t want to munch on snack foods while staring at Kurt’s old armoire. Whatever an armoire is.

Sam usually kicks Blaine’s ass at videogames, which he thinks is a fair tradeoff because Blaine pretty much always gets a better grade on his homework, but one time they’re playing Call of Duty and Sam is whooping his ass and -- he doesn’t mean to pry, it just happens -- Blaine thinks, _I hate this stupid game._ Sam’s pretty sure he doesn’t mean it, and so he does something he’s never done before, not even for Stevie (because Stevie needs to learn how to lose gracefully, or, at least, that’s what he tells his mom): he self-sabotages. He lets Blaine win that round just because it seems to make him happy, which makes Sam happy.

Which is a totally normal thing to feel for your bro. Totally.

*

Getting over Kurt is a long and drawn out process, which Sam understands. His first heartbreak had hurt like hell too. Well, sort of. It was kind of hard to mourn over Quinn Fabray. It takes time, but it does happen. Blaine spends a lot of time thinking about Kurt. And then a little less. And a little less. And eventually it peters out to passing thoughts, like when he sees a super weird scarf that reminds him of him, or whenever a song from West Side Story comes on his iPod. (Sam doesn’t ask.)

One day, though, in the early stages of spring, they’re walking through the mall together. Sam’s looking for a gift for his little sister. Blaine just wants some food court pretzels. And Sam is digging through his wallet, pooling together some of his leftover saved-for-special-occasions stripping money, when Blaine thinks, startlingly loud: _Wow, that guy is hot._

Sam immediately looks up. He doesn’t even mean to, it just happens, and Blaine gives him a funny look like he knew why Sam was looking. But Sam, being the great actor that he is, plays it off. “Look,” he says, pointing. “You can get your picture taken with the Easter Bunny.”

Blaine blinks at him. “Do you _want_ your picture taken with the Easter Bunny?”

“No,” Sam says, “I want _our_ picture taken with the Easter Bunny.”

“No.” Blaine shakes his head stoutly, already distracted. “Absolutely not.” Sam takes the opportunity to sneak a glance at this supposedly super hot guy. He’s leaning against the balcony railing, in that effortlessly cool way that Sam’s never been able to replicate, and he’s tall and lean and has really good hair. Not even Justin Bieber-good hair. Just a really good, healthy head of hair. And the thing is, now that Blaine’s looked away, the guy’s totally checking Blaine out. He knows because when his eyes get right about ass-level, a little pleased smirk tugs at his lips.

Sam has a distinctive lack of ass. No one’s ever smirked at his ass that way.

Sam screws up his eyes just enough to hone in on this guy’s thoughts, and they’re all relatively PG-related, or at least not something he feels he should be worried about. The guy thinks Blaine is cute. That’s the word he uses, cute. And it’s a nice word. And Blaine deserves to hear nice words said about him, especially when they’re not from Sam, because it’s kind of exhausting, using nice words all the time. So he reaches out and hits Blaine’s shoulder. If this isn’t what he was given powers for, then he doesn’t know what is.

“Hey,” he says, quietly, for Blaine’s benefit. “Hey, you see that guy over there? He’s pretty good-looking, right?”

Blaine’s eyes widen slightly, like he’d been caught, but then he doubts himself and looks over too. For a tenth of a second. He and stranger-dude _almost_ make eye contact, but the guy whips his around just in time. Smooth.

“I don’t know,” Blaine says, crossing his arms like he does when he’s uncomfortable. “Why, are you interested?”

Sam punches him again. Harder this time. “Not for me, stupid. For you. He’s gay.”

“You don’t know he’s gay.”

“He is definitely gay.”

“How do you know?”

“He --” Sam pauses, thinks about saying _he thinks you’re a seven with the potential to nakedly bump it up to a nine_ but decides against it, and clears his throat. “He’s got a bag from Bath and Body Works.”

“Could be a gift for his girlfriend,” Blaine says stubbornly.

“Also, he was staring at your ass.”

That shuts Blaine up. He chances another tiny glance over, looking slightly more hopeful now, before turning his attention back to Sam. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Well.” Blaine uncrosses his arms and then re-crosses them, like he’s not sure what to do with them. “I mean, even if he... even if I...”

Sam can’t stand there and listen to this all day. He gives Blaine a shove. “Go,” he says. “Go give him your number. If you don’t, I’ll do it, and I’ll tell him about your sixteen pairs of pinstriped boxers while I’m at it.”

“They were on _sale_ ,” Blaine mutters defensively, but he’s already heading in that direction, so clearly the threat works. “Besides, I told you to stay out of my underwear drawer.”

“Then stop hiding your diary there,” Sam calls back, but Blaine just ignores him as he approaches the guy with his shoulders raised. It’s fine. He’s totally going to get laid, and it’s all thanks to Sam. Not -- not that he’d ever tell anyone that. He considers listening in to their conversation, or more, what they were actually thinking, but he’s pretty sure he’s done enough eavesdropping for the day. He decides to leave them to it, and he goes and buys Blaine those pretzels that he’d wanted while he waits.

*

Blaine looks flushed and a little breathless when they meet up outside of Macy’s, proudly holding his phone out for Sam to see. “Way to go, dude,” Sam says, giving him a worthy fist-bump. He was a genius. A certified genius. “I guess you can delete Grindr from your phone now, huh?”

“You’re the one that downloaded it,” Blaine says stiffly, shoving his phone right into his pocket. “And besides, I deleted it weeks ago.”

 _I’ll delete it tonight,_ Blaine thinks.

Sam stifles back a laugh.

“So,” he says, handing him what was left of the pretzel. He was pretty sure his good deed was going to go unnoticed. He’d gotten hungry along the way. “When are you going to see him?”

“Friday night,” Blaine says, and he smiles bashfully at the ground. But then, in a flash of a second, his expression changes, and he looks up, stricken and concerned. “Oh shoot, Sam, I forgot we had plans that night, I can cancel --”

“Absolutely not,” Sam says firmly, holding up his hand. “Haven’t you read the Dude Code, man? ‘A bro shalt not cockblock his bro, even if thou bros had earlier plans.’” He grins and knocks Blaine’s arm with his own. “We can go bowling Saturday. If you make it out of his bed by then, anyway.”

This time it’s Blaine’s turn to punch Sam, although even that is lighthearted, like he doesn’t really mean it. “You’re the worst,” Blaine says, but he actually thinks, _He’s the best_ , so Sam will take what he can get.

Before they leave, against Blaine's will, they really do get their picture taken with the Easter Bunny. Sam even coaxes Blaine into sitting on his lap.

(Afterwards, he doesn't know what to do with the picture, so he stuffs it into an envelope and slides it through the slots of Blaine's locker. One of his football buddies sees him do it, and he knows it probably looks weird, but whatever. The Easter Bunny had smelled like rotten eggs and tobacco, but it'd been kind of funny to hear a full-grown man inside a rabbit costume think, _Aren't they a little too old for this?_ So it was worth it. Definitely worth it.)

*

Things with mall-dude don’t work out -- “he kept talking about his dogs,” Blaine had said, “and not even in a cute way, you’d think he gave birth to them himself” -- but it does serve one purpose: it rejuvenates Blaine’s sex drive. Or at least his wanting to go out and meet other people drive, whatever that’s called. He thinks about guys now. Ryder takes his shirt off for some weird song number and Blaine practically wolf-whistles in his mind.

(There was one time, and Sam will take this moment to his grave, when he and Blaine were doing homework together, and Blaine’s mind started wandering off. Sam listened in, because math was literally the most boring thing in the world and the numbers were swimming around on the page anyway, but it was the most regrettable decision he’d ever made in his whole entire life. Blaine was thinking about -- about Kurt, about doing _things_ with Kurt, and he was thinking these graphic things that Sam would’ve never ever expected, right down to the very intimate act of -- well, Sam had fallen backwards out of his chair and then rushed out of the house, claiming he had a dentist appointment he’d just remembered and his dentist got angry when they were late. Blaine hadn’t questioned him on it, the next day, but he had shot Sam a few careful looks when he thought he wasn’t looking, and Sam had definitely learned his lesson: not to read someone’s mind when they had that goofy dazed expression on their face.)

One weekend, though, Blaine decides he wants to go back to Scandals.

“I’ve only been once,” he tells Sam, poking through his shirt collection and holding a green sleeve out, like he’s considering the color with his skin tone, or whatever it is guys like Blaine do. “And it was fun. I mean, the beginning was fun. Before... things happened. But I like to dance. Where else can I go and dance with a guy and have no one there stare at me?”

“Glee club,” Sam says, but Blaine ignores him.

“So, I mean, I just won’t drink much, and I won’t stay too late. It should be fine, right?”

“Sure,” Sam says, shrugging. “What time are we going?”

Blaine drops the shirt sleeve and looks at him skeptically. “What?”

“You’re driving, because no way am I going to a gay bar without getting some old dude to buy me a drink. Besides, I haven’t gone out in forever. The last bar I was in was Stallionz. It’ll be nice to have a beer somewhere without having to take my clothes off first.”

“Sam,” Blaine says, “you really don’t have to --”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Don’t act like I’m doing you a favor. Look, you might be prime rib at a place like that, but I’m a straight up t-bone.”

That makes Blaine laugh, but it also makes him chuck a pillow at his head, so it’s sort of a win-lose. “Nine o’clock tomorrow night,” he says, going back to scouring his closet. “Don’t be late.”

*

Scandals is not at all what Sam had been expecting. He’s never been to a gay bar before, but Santana had made him watch an episode of Queer as Folk one time -- he probably should’ve been tipped off when she’d fast-forwarded to all of the lesbian scenes -- and the gay club on that show was sort of like what he thought Elton John’s personal heaven would look like. This place looked more like somewhere Ellen Degeneres would hang out.

“This is it?” he says to Blaine, handing the bouncer his fake ID. It says he’s 36 and from Idaho. The man in his picture has a handlebar mustache. They get waved in regardless. “Where are all of the naked guys?”

“At Stallionz,” Blaine says back, shooting him a grin. “This is better than last time, anyway. I think last time there were only five people here under the age of forty.”

Tonight is apparently college night, and Sam’s assuming these are all guys from Lima Community College, because he’s pretty sure the dudes at the state schools would have somewhere better to be. There’s a nice mix of them, though. Young guys. Black guys. Beardy guys. Drunk guys. Guys who couldn’t dance, being edged off the dance floor by the guys who could. Sam and Blaine head straight for the bar.

“Two beers,” Blaine says, smiling at the bartender, who looks less than thrilled with his life. He dutifully pushes the bottles over to them and Blaine lifts his for a toast. “To the one and only drink I’m having tonight.”

“To the first of many,” Sam counters, and they clink their bottles together.

They sit on their barstools and nurse their drinks and people-watch for a few minutes, before finally Sam lifts his hand and points at men in the crowd. “That guy,” he says, gesturing to a dude in a Buckeyes shirt, “and that one, and that one, definitely that one, maybe that one --”

“What are you doing?” Blaine says, looking at him weirdly.

“Pointing out the dudes you have a chance with tonight.”

Blaine laughs. “Yeah, right,” he says, but he looks pleased. He picks at the label of his beer for a second then nods across the dance floor, at who is easily the best-looking guy out there. “What about him?”

“Definitely not.”

That seems to wound Blaine, just slightly. “Why not?”

“Because that’s not a drag queen he’s dancing with.” Sam had maybe sort of listened to his thoughts as they’d passed. They went a lot like this: _tits tits tits tits tits tits tits_. “He’s one of those lameass straight guys that came to a gay bar looking for girls who’ll think he’s sensitive and understanding.”

“You mean like you?” Blaine says, lifting his eyebrows at him.

“Exactly.”

About five minutes later, a clean-shaven guy in dress shirt approaches them, and even the way he leans against the bar is flirty. “Hey,” he says, and when Blaine and Sam return the greeting, he gives them a very suggestive once-over. “Are you guys...?” he says, and wiggles his finger between them.

Blaine looks at him. “No,” Sam says, quickly. “I’m not -- he is, though,” and jams his thumb towards Blaine.

The guy looks slightly disappointed, but recovers fast enough. “Want to dance?” he asks Blaine, and then, with a grin, “if that’s okay with your friend here --”

“Go for it,” Sam says, waving him off. “I’ll watch our purses.”

Blaine rolls his eyes, yet again, but hops off the stool and hands his half-finished drink to Sam. “I’d love to,” he says, and the guy takes his hand before weaving him through the crowd and into the middle of the floor.

Sam only watches them for a split second, before he decides it’s weird, and he turns back towards the bar and finishes his drink, and then Blaine’s after that. Guys filter in and out of the seat that Blaine had abandoned for the next hour, some of them disappearing immediately when they realized he was straight, some sticking around for conversation. He talks sports with a guy that he’s _pretty_ sure was in a Doritos commercial for more than thirty minutes, before he makes eye contact with some guy across the room and says, “Well, that’s the mating call,” and mysteriously vanishes into the bathroom.

Blaine doesn’t reappear until some Britney Spears song ends, and he’s a little sweaty and red-faced but smiling as he reclaims his seat. “You having fun?” Sam asks, grinning around the rim of his fifth beer, and Blaine wipes his forehead on his sleeve and nods.

“I am,” he says. “That guy tried to kiss me, but I shook him off and he spent the next three songs pouting at me over the shoulder of another guy.” Blaine shakes his head. “Guys are weird.”

“What, you didn’t want to kiss him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

This time Blaine looks at him with his eyebrows furrowed. “I just didn’t,” he says, a little defensively, and Sam drops the subject.

“Want another drink?”

“No.”

“Well, too bad,” Sam says, and pushes a cup over towards him. “I got you a water.”

Blaine takes the glass gratefully, and throws back half of it in record time. “Are _you_ having fun?” he asks when he’s finished, tapping his fingers against the bar.

“I am, yeah. Haven’t paid a penny for the last three drinks. One guy starting asking me about car stuff, though, and he seemed disappointed when I didn’t know what he was talking about.”

“Really? What’d he say?”

“Something about rim jobs,” Sam says, and Blaine chokes on his drink.

It takes a few moment of pounding Blaine on the back before he starts breathing normally, but even then he keeps snort-laughing into his cup every few seconds, whatever that’s about.

“Hey,” Sam says, a few seconds later, “don’t look now, but that guy you didn’t want to kiss is staring at you from by the jukebox.”

Blaine doesn’t look at all, in fact. He really isn’t interested. Sam’s not sure why. He’s attractive, a good enough dancer, from what he’d seen, and he wasn’t doing the gay bar mating call thing, which had to be a plus. And so even though Sam told himself he wasn’t going to do this tonight, even though he just wanted to prove he could be Blaine’s bro without digging deep into his thoughts, he can’t help it. He was given superpowers for a reason, damn it. He can’t just ignore them.

He expects Blaine’s maybe thinking about Kurt again, like being at Scandals reminds him of him, or being all up on sweaty dudes reminds him of him, or maybe ice water reminds him of him, who knows. He’s not expecting Blaine to be thinking _I wish Sam would kiss me instead._

If Sam had been drinking at the time, it would’ve been his turn to choke. Instead his elbow slips off the bar and he nearly smacks his chin against the wood, and he probably would’ve, if Blaine hadn’t caught him in time.

“Are you okay?” Blaine says, alarmed, and Sam awkwardly laughs it off.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he says, straightening up in his stool, his mind reeling. He tugs his arm out of Blaine’s grip. “I swear I’m not drunk. I just haven’t peed in awhile. So maybe I’ll --”

“I wouldn’t go into the bathroom right now if I were you,” the bartender says, which is equally startling, but fine, then. He stays put.

Sam’s name is Sam, which is obvious, but maybe there’s another Sam in the bar -- or maybe it’s a different Sam, like Samuel L Jackson, but why Blaine would want Samuel L Jackson to kiss him is beyond him, and okay, he’s probably _the_ Sam, the one that Blaine wants to kiss.

He doesn’t realize he hasn’t said anything in a few minutes until Blaine clears his throat. “I think I’m going to go dance some more,” he says, slightly hesitant. “Is that okay? Are you sure you’re --”

“Go,” Sam says, more firmly than he’d intended, and Blaine blinks a little but does, getting swallowed up by the crowd of attractive gay dudes who aren’t named Sam.

The thing is, if he thinks about it, it’s really not that far-fetched, is it? He and Blaine have been spending a lot of time together. All year. Sam can’t remember ever being this close with a dude, not even Puck who ditched him half the time for whatever girl was the flavor of the week, not even his roommate at boarding school who’d do Sam’s homework if he begged hard enough. Sam hasn’t been on a date in -- not since he’d gotten his superpowers, anyway, partially because the inner working of girls sort of weirded him out, and partially because he didn’t have time. And why didn’t he have time? It all circled back to Blaine.

Blaine, who’d been on more than a few dates lately, who’d always found reasons not to hook up with the guys at the end of the night. They were too tall. Too short. They talked too much. They didn’t talk enough. There was a perfectly attractive dude that wanted to kiss Blaine, and he’d pushed him away.

Because he wanted Sam to kiss him instead.

And why not? He didn’t know what was stopping him. He’d spent the better part of the spring semester convincing himself it was normal to bring your guy friend a box of chocolates just because he was feeling down. And maybe it _was_ normal, just not the normal he’d thought it was. Maybe he didn’t have to be one thing or the other. Maybe he could be both. Maybe he _did_ know what a rim job was, because he’d done a little poking around on the internet, and maybe he’d told that story just to make Blaine laugh.

Sam makes his decision pretty easily. He downs the rest of his beer, wipes his mouth on the back of his arm, and slides off his stool. It only takes him a second to find Blaine in the crowd. Like he hadn’t kept an eye on him.

He pushes his way through the crowd, actually forcing himself between two guys who seemed to be magnetically attached through their jeans, and approaches Blaine from behind. He’s dancing with an older guy who looks only vaguely interested, so he doesn’t feel bad about interrupting, about reaching out and grabbing Blaine’s shoulder, about twisting him around and kissing him hard before he even has the chance to look surprised.

Blaine’s lips are as soft as he thought they’d be, and it takes him a second to kiss back, but when he kisses back he _really kisses back_ , pushing against him like he’d been wanting to do this for months. The music is too loud, and Sam’s too warm, but it doesn’t matter, because Sam’s thinking about how it’s funny you can want something without even realizing it. How you don’t even know until it bites you in the ass.

This is probably why he got his superpowers, Sam decides. Not just to give a motivational speech to a fellow glee clubber once or twice a week.

*

They don’t go to the bar bathroom, because that’s a little tacky even for Sam, but he does get to second base in the back of Blaine’s car, and Blaine laughs quietly against his neck and asks him how he knew.

“I have telepathic powers,” he tells Blaine, very seriously.

“You know,” Blaine says, “I’ve gotten that feeling sometimes,” but he never says whether or not he believes him; he just kisses him, again and again and again.


End file.
